Church Of Xcellentology (Ryder Blade RP v Reya Serra)

'Sir! Sir!'

The sound of Chambers' excited voice is the first sound I hear upon entering the precinct. Not the door closing, or a phone ringing, or Nicki's unwaveringly chipper call of 'good morning, Detective!' Nope. The kid's voice is what welcomes me to another undoubtedly long-ass day at work.

'You should know by now, Chambers – not until I've had my coffee.' That's all he's getting by way of greeting. I don't mean to be rude – it's just that, like I said, my day begins after I've fetched myself an early morning cuppa joe. And right now, my hands are notoriously devoid of any such thing.

Chambers, however, is not to be deterred so quickly, and follows closely behind me as I make my way to the coffee machine at the far end of the common area. I gotta hand it to the kid, he's persistent; but he's also going the right way for a chewing-out. I better get my coffee quick, or this might not end well.

I try to drown Chambers out I pick my preferred type of brew - black, two sugars – then count the seconds until the coffee's done:

...nineteen...eighteen...seventeen...

'Sir, this is real important, I gotta talk to you!'

...sixteen...fifteen...fourteen...

'Sir...I understand you need your coffee, but this is urgent.'

...thirteen...twelve...eleven...t—

'Sir!'

'WHAT!?' He had it coming. Kid should have known when to quit. 'What's so important that it can't wait five goddamn minutes for me to finish getting my coffee?'

'They showed up again this week.' To his credit, Chambers doesn't give an inch, even after getting yelled at. This kid's got balls of steel. He should be going places, if he can curb his enthusiasm.

Shame I have no idea what he's talking about.

'They? Who's they?! I don't do cryptic before coffee!'

'Those two dudes. Y'know...our old friends?'

'Oooh, them!' Suddenly, I see what all the urgency was about. 'Did they show up on that wrestling thing again?'

'Yup. Kids were away at camp, so we didn't catch up 'till last night...but it's definitely them again.' Chambers pulls out his iPad and turns it towards me. This time, he's had the common sense to pre-load whatever it is he wants to show me, so there is no awkward waiting time; within seconds, I am watching the final few seconds of a wrestling show held by this Visionaries place. And right away, I can tell the kid's right; these are definitely the same bozos from the other week. The group itself is one Barbie doll short – a crushing blow for divorced thirty-something men everywhere – but the people that matter, the two masked idiots? They're both there, and both still as familiar as before.

'See there?' Chambers points at one of the figures on the screen as he runs interference on behalf of his boy. 'Look how he's moving. Doesn't that look familiar?'

It does indeed. There's a certain litheness to the guy's movements, a certain gracefulness, that a guy his size really shouldn't have. It's a way of moving I recognize all too well – one which hints at this guy being, or having been, a boxer. And according to our records, 'Big' Mike Billings is – among a myriad of other variably unsavoury things – a former amateur boxing Champion.

Yup. I can definitely see why this couldn't wait.

'Good job, Jack. I'm not even mad at you for trying to talk to me before coffee anymore.'

'Thank you, sir.' God bless the kid, he actually looks relieved. 'I was gonna call you soon as I saw it last night, but, well...I didn't wanna disturb you or nothin'.'

'I'm glad you didn't call last night, Jack', I quip. 'Or your sorry ass might not have been able to come to work this morning.'

Chambers smiles. 'Didn't wanna risk it, sir.'

We share a laugh, then it's straight back to business. 'Was anyone at the arena to meet and greet our friends?'

'The local police force sent some men, but our boys dodged them.'

'Dammit!' I slam my coffee on my desk, then immediately regret it when it spills. 'How?'

'I'm not sure, sir', Chambers admits. 'They were seen getting into a car with tinted windows. We have the license plate, but it's probably a rental. Either that, or the license plate's likely fake.'

I nod. 'Go on.'

'Ottawa police tailed them out of the arena parking lot, but lost them somewhere on the outskirts of town. They wouldn't provide any further details.'

'God. Fucking. DAMMIT!' This time, it's the middle drawer of my desk that receives the brunt of my wrath. 'How is it that trained fucking police professionals can't even tail a bunch of fucking mobsters and a couple of kids? What do they teach them in cadet training up there, how to tie their shoes?!' Calm down, Tom. Deep breaths. You know what getting like this does to you. Take it easy. There ya go. Deep breaths. Atta boy. 'I'll...I'll talk to you later, Jack. Just coordinate with Canadian police and have those fuckers traced. I want them under surveillance all the way to...where is that wrestling place going next?'

'Montreal. They have their Pay-Per-View event there.'

'Our boy in it? Scotty Skateboard?'

'He goes by Ryder Blade, sir. And yeah, he's in it. Defending his belt.'

Ryder Blade!? Jesus tap-dancing Christ! 'Well, then, if he's there, I'm sure those fuckers are going to be there, too. I want them followed as closely as possible. Tell those bozos up in Canada to do whatever it takes. Wire-tap their car, install security cameras, shove a hidden mic up the girl's snatch for all I care. Just make sure our little travelling freakshow is kept under surveillance. You got that?'

'Yes, sir!' Suddenly, Chambers is all business, standing bolt upright as he shakes my hand and marches out of my office. I watch him go for a moment, my head spinning with thoughts of Big Mike and Kyrill and Carlo Falcone and wrestling and fucking Canadian Mounties. Only then do I turn on my laptop to attend to today's first order of business – a few rounds of Minesweeper.

Trying to keep some bombs from blowing may just be the best way to prevent me from blowing up myself.


'HAAAAA! In your face!'

Ryder throws down his controller and launches into his umpteenth obnoxious victory dance – a cross between a cheer routine and something vaguely approximating hip-hop dancing, complete with rapped lyrics:

'The Xcellent Champion wins again / The Xcellent Champion is the man / Magic Mike lost another game / 'Cause Magic Mike is MONDO LAME!'

Mike – Ryder's opponent in this videogame battle, who has, indeed, just 'lost another game' – takes Ryder's ribbing surprisingly well, grinning from ear to ear as he guffaws and calls out:

'Yo' Momma lame, sucka! Yo' ass got lucky! Now get the hell back over here an' let Coach Mike school ya on how it's done!'

'Oooooh, is Magic Mike in the mood for another Xcellent butt-whupping?', Ryder teases. 'Well, if that's the case, the Xcellent Champion would be more than happy to be of persistence.'

'Assistance', I correct, prompting Ryder to burst out laughing. I raise an inquisitive eyebrow, shooting Mike a puzzled look, but it takes another several seconds for a gasping, wheezing Xcellent Champion to clarify:

'You said ass, Dad!'

...of course.

'Don't be silly, Ryder. I said 'assistance'. That is a word in the English vocabulary, and it is the word you were looking for just then.'

'But dude, that word's got 'ass' in it!', Ryder insists. 'Doesn't that make it, like, totally rude?'

'Of course not!', I snap. 'Everyone says 'assistance'.'

'Well, maybe everyone's rude. The Xcellent Champion isn't rude. Being rude is for lame-os!'

I give up.

'Y'know, you might not get beat all the time if you stopped picking the Eagles', I point out, turning my attention to Mike instead. Predictably, he gets huffy:

'Yo boss, how you gon' shit-talk the Eagles?'

'I'm not shit-talking the Eagles', I retort. 'It's not shit-talking when what you're saying is a well-known fact. And it's a well-known fact that the Eagles suck.'

'Yeah, Magic Mike. The Eagles are a bunch of lame-o losers! Get with the times, bruh! The Xcellent Champion is reppin' the Patriots all the way! #NoBradyNoBanner!'

Of course. Trust Ryder to not only pick the flavor-of-the-moment team, but also declare himself a Brady fan. Is there any box in the 'obnoxious fratboy' column this kid leaves unchecked?

'Tch. Patriots ain't shit, son! Ain't even got real fans – all they got is a bunch'a fairweather motherfuckers!'

'Magic Mike! That kind of language is not Xcellent Champion approved!' Ryder gasps, as he takes his place beside Mike and goes about starting a new game.

Before the two Maddenheads can square off in the gridiron yet again, however, a major kink is thrown into the plans - namely, a kink wearing a thong bikini, her large, fake breasts all but falling out of it.

'Wanna go in the pool, bae?'

'The pool?! All right!' As quickly as the controller on his lap will allow, Ryder is vaulting over the arm of the couch and trampling down the hallway towards his room. Bambi quickly follows along, giggling at her 'bae''s excitement, and all of a sudden it is just me and Mike in the room.

'Guess you got off lucky, big guy', I quip. 'Kid would've kicked your ass again.'

Mike laughs, rising from the couch. 'Prob'ly would'a.'

'If only you'd stop picking the goddamn Eagles...'

We share a rare, uncharacteristic laugh. There's been a lot of that going on lately, actually; ever since we arrived at Mario Lamberti's compound a week or so ago, the mood has been surprisingly light. Something about knowing we're almost entirely safe in here, I suppose.

Lamberti's a good guy; he's done some shit for my family in the past, always come through and never ratted. When he had to skip town and ended up moving to Canada, we stayed in touch – I'd be an idiot not to know the value of having allies beyond borders. That's why, when it came time to find a fail-safe hidey-hole in Canada, my first thought was of him. One phone call later, and he had us all set up at his maximum security compound – which is where we've been staying since shortly after the VoW show in Ontario.

Getting here was not as easy as we expected, either – halfway to home base, Mike got a feeling we were being tailed. I tend to trust the guy's instincts on shit like that, so I let him lose an extra half-hour or so trying to shake the fuckers across the streets of Ottawa. Fortunately, we had accounted for such an eventuality, and Mario had a second car waiting just in case I ran into trouble. All I had to do was get on the phone to him with the secret code, and he would send it over.

And send it over he did, which is how we shook whoever it was who was tailing us. Out of one car, into the other, start driving the other way – all basic stuff, but you'd be surprised how easily the average law-enforcement jackass can be fooled, even in this day and age. You'd think they'd have smartened up by now, but nope – still as easy to give the run-around as they were when I started out forty years ago.

Once the tail had been shaken, the rest was easy. We took the long way round, but eventually made it to Mario's compound, out in a field in the middle of nowhere. I'm not even sure where in Canada we are, to be honest – might still be Ontario, might be Quebec, might be Newfoundland, might be Alaska for all I know or care. All that matter is, we're safe. Nobody's ever going to come looking for Carlo Falcone in a wheat field in Bumfuck, Canada. Especially not when the compound building itself looks more like an abandoned storage shed than the state-of-the-art living facility it is on the inside.

And trust me – it is state-of-the-art. The Sprintex compound is ritzy, but this guy's got everything – indoor pool, indoor tennis courts, bedrooms the size of the entire apartment Jacobs used to live in...you name it. Shit you'd never know was there if you were looking at the place from the outside - mainly because most of it is underground. Mario told me it took him a good long while to get this place up to snuff (and a good bit of skulking about, too, no doubt) but I gotta admit - it was worth it.

That's where Kyrill, Mike, Bambi, Ryder and I have been living for the past week or so, as we prepare to tackle VoW's upcoming Pay-Per-View event, Heatwave (trust this fucking place to call a Pay-Per-View held in Quebec Heatwave....) That is where Ryder will be, erm, defending his Xcellent Championship for the first time. And as per the usual norm, those cocksuckers went out of their way to try and screw my boy over – in this case, by giving him Reya Serra, one of the many, many people in the company to have a problem with the Xcellent Champion. Sure, she's not as gung-ho about wringing Ryder's neck as her BFF Stacy, but there's still no love lost between her and my cash cow. Which is why we're taking extra measures to ensure everything goes smoothly.

Nothing too extreme, of course – we don't want to give ourselves away when our little Canadian vacation is going so very well. But we've been pulling a few strings behind the scenes. Calling in a few favors. Making sure Stevie-boy and his man Ferrari are willing to play ball, and aren't about to screw us over for their own gain. That sort of thing. Just giving our man a little competitive advantage, in case things go wrong. Nothing wrong with that. It's just good business. That belt makes Ryder look good - and if he looks good, Sprintex looks good. And if Sprintex looks good, it sells more, and I make more money. Simple, really.

Ryder knows nothing about any of it, of course – to him, all that matters is the perceived conspiracy keeping him and Stevo out of every main event, ever. Which is not all that far-fetched, if you think about it – the way these VoW motherfuckers try to screw those kids over, you can't really fault Ryder for wearing the tin foil hat. Even if it's not true, it keeps that Sprintex-addled brain of his busy while me and the boys take care of business – and it gives him a way to make himself noticed at the events. Everyone wins.

Just as I am about to begin formulating a plan to employ going forward, my pleasant little stroll down recent-memory lane is abruptly interrupted by the thumping sound of feet trundling down the stairs. A moment later, a swimming-trunk-clad Ryder whisks past me, his girlfriend bouncing along behind him, barely managing to keep up in her too-small flip-flops.

'Hi Dad! 'Bye Dad', he calls out, as he races down an additional flight of steps towards Mario's underground heated pool. His and Bambi's squeals of laughter echo across the compound for a moment, becoming more and more muffled as they make their way to the pool. A moment later, a nearly inaudible splash indicates they have hit the water, at which point I turn to Mike and jerk my head towards the flight of stairs. He is immediately on his feet, nodding curtly as he begins to take the steps two by two.

'...and find Kyrill', I shout after him.

'Don't worry, boss!', comes the echo-y response. And I won't – worry, that is. Mike is proving, more and more, to be a competent hand, someone who fooled me into thinking they were far more useless than they were. That, in itself, is a feat - I'd like to think Carlo Falcone is not the type of man who's easily deceived, and yet here is this ghetto thug playing me like a deck of cards. Either I'm losing my faculties, or Mike's some sort of housing-projects Einstein; either way, he's earned my trust, which is more than can be said for his big oaf of a partner.

Even Kyrill doesn't have me too worried, though; he may have the mental capacity of a seven-year-old, but with Mike watching over him, he is a more than competent enforcer, and loyal to a fault. Overall, I'm starting to think I couldn't have picked a better duo to help me with this little enterprise. Hell, Ryder even likes them, and they like him back! One big happy fucking family. And watching over it, of course...

...dear old Dad.


'CANNONBALL!!!!'

Ryder hits the water knees-first, and there's this big fucking splash, water all over the goddamn place. On the wall, on Bambi's hair...even on my suit. Still, I ain't mind too much – ain't like I'm going to be seeing anyone tonight or nothing. 'Sides, I'm kinda wishing I could be in there with homeboy and his girl – they look like they having hella fun. Suppose I could just strip down to my boxers and jump in there with them, but I ain't 'bout to test my luck without asking boss first – if I talk to him, maybe he'll say it's okay, but he find me in there with the kids without his permission, ain't no amateur boxing background going to help me.

I look over at Kyrill, and I can tell homeboy wants to get in the water, too. Security detail can be a real bitch sometimes. I mean, I get why it's important and shit, but damn. Sometimes a guy just wants a good time – can't all be about work all the goddamn time, you feel me? Sometimes a dude's gotta relax. Take it easy. Have some 'me' time. Get a load off. And right about now, jumping in that there pool seems like a damn fine way to do just that.

No go, though – boss said watch over the kids, and that's what we're supposed to do. No more, no less. Boss ain't said nothing about getting in the water. So I better just forget about it, and make damn sure Kyrill forgets about it, too. We just gotta wait 'till later. 'Till downtime. Then, maybe we can go in the pool. Until then, we're going to have to find another way to entertain our---

'Excusez-moi?'

Huh?! What the...

Daaaaaaayum!

This bitch standing in front of me is wearing nothing but a sheer-ass robe, looks like silk or something, and her birthday suit underneath. She's damn fine, too - looks to be in her thirties, with everything in place, a cute face, big bedroom eyes, and a damn perky little ass by the looks of it. Real high-class tramp. For sure wouldn't kick her out of my bed, marriage or no marriage. Matter of fact, right about now? I'd love to get her in my bed. Marriage or no marriage.

There's only one little problem with that – she's not talking to me.

She's talking to Kyrill.

'Qui etes-vous? Who are you?'

Dumb fucker don't speak no Spanish, of course, so for a minute he look like my daughter when she trying to do her Math homework; when the bitch switch to English, that's when a big goofy-ass grin shows up on his face.

'My name Kyrill. But you call me what you want, da?' Clueless-ass motherfucker! It works on the honey, though – she start smiling and shit.

'My name Chantal. Enchantée. Delighted.' She give Kyrill her hand and dude takes it, soft as you please, real gentleman-type shit. Well, well...who'd'a thunk?! K-Dogg's a softie!

'Yo Casanova...ain't you gon' introduce ya girl?' I hit this girl with my best smile, the one that won me Shonda, my Number Three Special. It works, natch. Normally, I wouldn't step in on my boy like this, but there's certain times a guy can't just stand there and watch a fat-ass like Kyrill take a fine-looking momma like this home. Sorry, bud – don't hate the player, hate the game.

'This Chan-toll', Kyrill says, side-eyeing the fuck out of me. 'She my friend.'

'Real subtle, Don Juan.' I take a step closer, still smiling, on top of my game. 'I ain't said she wasn't yo' friend...what I wanna know is, does she want to be my friend, too?' I wink at Chantal and she gets all giggly and shit, and I know I got her. Kyrill got no game. Getting this fine piece of ass off of him is going to be like taking candy from a baby.

I move a little closer, fixing to put my arm 'round Chantal's waist, getting a whiff of her fancy-ass perfume, laughing my ass off at Kyrill's butthurt expression...

'Making friends, I see?'

Holy shit that was close! If boss would've come in and seen me all up on this bitch, won't have been nothing left of me to tell the tale. His friend's with him too – rich guy who owns this place. I ain't no college professor, but I'm guessing Chantal is his girl – which would've put me and Kyrill in even deeper shit.

'Um, sorry, boss...she just turned up down here...she must'a been like, lost or somethin'...we ain't done nothin' with her, for real!'

'No, no, it's fine. Let them get acquainted with each other.' It's boss's friend says this, and even he can't believe it.

'Are...are you sure?'

'Yeah, why not? You guys are living here anyway, might as well introduce you to the new lady of the house.'

'Where'd you meet her, chief?' I know I shouldn't ask, but I gotta know; if I know, maybe I can go there and get a girl like this myself.

'Oh, at the health club. Just this week, actually. Isn't that right, chére?' Chantal starts giggling and walks over to him and starts yakking away in Spanish. I ain't understand shit she's saying, but dude obviously does, 'cause he nodding and smiling like a fool. I feel him – if I had a girl like that, I'd be smiling too.

Boss ain't smiling, though – he all business. He whisper something in rich dude's ear, and he nods. 'Sure, sure...that's what we're here for.' Then boss start wiggling his fingers at Ryder, which means that boy better get his ass out of the pool and over to where we are with the quickness.

'Awwww, Daaaad...do we gotta?' This fool lucky he boss's pet project; otherwise, I'd feel sorry for his ass for talking back ot him.

'Yes, Ryder, you 'gotta'. Both of you. And quickly – we want to get to some footage shot before nightfall, and Bambi's still got to put her costume on.'

'Ooooh, a costume!?' Bambi starts bouncing up and down, and believe me, I could watch that jiggle all day. 'What kinda costume?'

Boss ain't tell her right away; instead, he start acting all mysterious and shit. 'You'll see', he says.

And he grins.



The church's nave is almost entirely dark, lit only by the flickering, fluttering flame of a dozen or so candles scattered across the altar and the odd ledge here and there. Images of religious icons – saints, the Virgin Mary, Jesus himself – cast their judgemental glares upon us from several different spots around the pulpit, and in the background, soft choral music sifts through, its volume just loud enough to lend an ambiance to the entire thing without distracting from the real focus of the scene: the two silent figures by the altar.

The first of these figures appears to be a monk, or some other kind of religious practitioner. His features are shrouded by the hood of his tunic, and he holds a staff in his right hand. Standing beside him, her face similarly shrouded by the traditional habit, is a remarkably shapely nun, one who is perhaps showing a little too much leg for what would normally be considered decent, but is otherwise fittingly demure and low-key...

...or would be, if she could ever stop giggling.

Her fit of mirth causes the monk to shift in his seat, and for a moment, I fear the worst; fortunately, it doesn't take more than a moment for composure to be regained, in time for the hooded figure to start his narration:

'On the day of reckoning...when the fires of hell come to smite those who have sinned...when demons invade the Earth and Mankind is faced with the choice to repent or perish...'

The monk seems to pause a second, his posture becoming slightly more upright, and one can almost imagine a righteous fire burning in his still-shrouded eyes as he adjusts his hand on the handle of his staff. It is an imposing, humbling moment, which brings about thoughts of one's own mortality, their place on this Earth, their grand design in life...

...that is, until the monk speaks again.

'...WE PARTAAAAYYY!'

All of a sudden, the entire atmosphere of the scene changes, as lights come up, the choral music is replaced by hard rocking riffs, and our monk pulls back his hood to reveal – who else? - VoW's most Xcellent Champion. As he walks from the altar towards the center of the aisle, a huge smirk on his face, Ryder yells out his trademark catchprase:

'SIKE!!!'

He turns to the main camera and makes a point of mugging for it.

'Whut up, Rey-Rey? How you doin', babe? You know who this is. It's ya boy, the Xcellent Champion! Welcome to the Church of Xcellentology!'

Ryder points down at his tunic, smiling.

'How d'you like the digs? Pretty Xcellent, huh? And how 'bout the Xcellent Nun back there? Yo, c'mere, babes! Say hi to Reya!'

Hearing this, the Xcellent Nun – who is, of course, one and the same with the Xcellent Girlfriend - comes running down from her place near the altar, her voluminous breasts jiggling as she skips over in her heels to stand next to the Xcellent Champion. As she takes her place at his right shoulder, he reaches into his tunic to pull out his second most prized possession – the Xcellent Championship – which he slings across his left side. Only then does he speak again.

'Now, first of all, the Xcellent Champion and his Xcellent Girlfriend are sorry if you were like, expecting some Sunday morning mass video or whatever. The Xcellent Champion just wanted to make sure he had your attention, 'cause the Xcellent Champion has something he wants to say to you.'

Another cocky smirk, bringing a look of adoration from Bambi.

'See, the Xcellent Champion thinks you need to lighten up. Live a little, y'know? YOLO.' He did not just say 'YOLO'. 'See, the Xcellent Champion understands having religion and stuff. That's totally cool with the Xcellent Champion. El Cheeso Supremo, the big dude upstairs? He's a righteous dude. He's Xcellent Champion Approved.'

A cheesy thumbs-up, as the tech crew are now eating from his hand.

'And Reya, the Xcellent Champion also understands that every group of smoking hot babes has to have a church-going goody two-shoes that keeps the others from partying with rad dudes like the Xcellent Champion. The Bodacious Babes have you. And that's also fine with the Xcellent Champion.

What's not fine with the Xcellent Champion...'

Ryder attempts a 'serious' look; unsurprisingly, it fails.

'...what's not fine with the Xcellent Champion is the fact that you suddenly want his belt. Not only because it's his belt and he likes it, but because Reya...you're not Xcellent enough to have it.'

Another pause. This kid is nailing the cadence of a video like this better with every passing week.

'No, no, no, Reya. You ain't Xcellent enough to hold the Xcellent belt. No way, Jose. No chance, Lance. In fact, this is how Xcellent you have to be to hold this belt...'

Ryder raises a hand up above his head, then lowers one to about knee height.

'...and this is where you're at.'

He lifts his head slightly to gaze at the camera, a twinkle in his eye and a smirk on his lips.

'...any questions?'

Damn this kid is killing it!

'So yeah, Reya...the Xcellent Champion is not sure why the powers-that-be at VoW decided you were Xcellent enough to come for his belt. The way the Xcellent Champion sees it, this is all part of the Xcellent Conspiracy against Team Xcellent!'

Ryder's hitting his stride now, and his tone starts to become more agitated.

'That's right. The Xcellent Champion knows him and Stevo are too Rated R for television. Rated R for RADICAL!'

A fistpump, and we're back on track.

'Soooo, the Xcellent Champion thinks one of the old lame dudes at VoW must have seen how totally triumphant Team Xcellent was and thought, 'hmmmm, we need to get these dudes off of television!' And then the other dude must have been like, 'dude, I know how we could do that!', and first dude goes, 'how?', and second dude goes, 'let's take the most non-Xcellent person we can find and, like, totally give them a title shot!' So then first dude goes, 'duuuuude, that's awesome! We could, like, give it to that church chick! She's like, the least Xcellent person ever!' and second dude goes, 'far out, bruh!', and that's why you're here.'

All that in one breath. Not bad.

'But don't worry, Reya. You may not be Xcellent enough to hang with the Xcellent Champion just yet, but the Xcellent Champion is sure you have what it takes to be a total dudette. So if you ditch the whole lame-o church thing and start throwing down with Team Xcellent, the Xcellent Champion is sure you can become Xcellent enough for a rematch in no time!'

My head is spinning from all the 'X''s, but Ryder does not seem the slightest bit confused by it. He is still smirking as he continues:

'July 20, Montreal, Canada. VoW Heatstroke. The hottest partay in all of professional wrestling! Featuring some old dudes and a Bodacious Babe in a cage – kinky! - some old emo dudes cutting one another, some dudes and dudettes who aren't cool enough to be on television, the Xcellent Partner winning an Xcellent Prize....and yours truly, VoW's most Xcellent Champion, once again proving why he's the most R-rated superstar in VoW. Rated R for RADICAL!!!'

Another thumbs up, then Ryder takes it home:

'So Reya...you better say your prayers...you better hope for a Hail Mary...you better hope the Big Kahuna's on your side...'cause that's the only way you're gonna have a chance at taking the Xcellent Championship away from the Xcellent Champion. And even then, the Xcellent Champion's pretty confident. 'Cause you see, Reya, even if you turn out to be Xcellent enough to hang, even if you have your friends upstairs helping you...the Xcellent Champion still has some tricks of his own up his sleeve. And Reya...

...they're pretty Xcellent.'

A wink, and the director signals to cut. Another video is in the bag. And judging by the smattering of genuine applause going around the room, I wasn't the only one to think it was another pretty good one.

'Did the Xcellent Champion do well, Dad?', a sweating, ruddy-faced Ryder wants to know as I walk towards him.

'The Xcellent Champion did great, son', I smile, placing a hand on his shoulder. And I mean that, too.

'What about the Xcellent Girlfriend?' Ryder jerks a thumb at the giggling Bambi, just emerging behind him, still in her stripper-nun costume.

'She did pretty well, too.'

'Far out!' Ryder punches the air, and plants a smooch on the Xcellent Girlfriend's cheek. 'Good enough for a Sprintex Shake?'

I smirk, throwing a wink the happy couple's way.

'Good enough for three.'



The call comes through at about 1pm, New York time. The caller is a woman, her English clipped and accented, but still understandable even despite the fuzzy sound quality.

'There are four men and one girl. Ages from late teens to maybe fifties. One has some sort of foreign accent. Maybe Russian or Ukrainian. The others are definitely American.'

'Great, great. Mind giving us some descriptions for each of them?'

'Sure. I'll start with the boss and go down from there, oui?'

'Works for me', I say. And that turns out to be the last thing I say for a while. Instead, I sit and listen intently as our interloper gives me detailed descriptions of each of the five people she has come into contact with earlier today, at an undisclosed location. And the more I listen, the more the smile on my face grows.

'Did that help?', she asks at the end, sounding uncertain.

'Are you kidding? That was beyond helpful. I don't know how to thank you, Miss...'

'Names are dangerous over the phone, Détéctive Stone.' Her tone is sultry, playful, and to be frank, incredibly sexy. I find myself imagining what is no doubt a devilish, red-lipsticked smile. 'But if you must call me something...'

'...I'll call you anything you'd like!' Oops. Didn't mean to say that out loud.

She giggles. '...if you must call me something, you can call me...Secret Weapon.'

And just like that, she hangs up the call.